


we unhappy two

by anglaland



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Battle of Agincourt, Enemies to Lovers, Feelings complicate everything, Hetabang 2020, Historical Hetalia, Hundred Years War - Freeform, M/M, storybook art included!, the beginning of the lovers part anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:01:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24243226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anglaland/pseuds/anglaland
Summary: Following a lull in the Hundred Year's War, England is eager for a new beginning for both himself and France. However, the peace is abruptly broken by an insult between kings, and the two of them march to an inevitable confrontation—in Agincourt.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	we unhappy two

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the Hetabang 2020 event on Tumblr. I had the pleasure of working with mysticgummybear for the art, and they were amazing! They transformed my story into a storybook, and I love it. I encourage you to check out the compilation of work that Hetabang will put out, because they made it look great! I've interspersed their art in this story. 
> 
> If you would like to read the text-only version of this story, please find me on fanfiction . net under the same name!

__

_April 1413_

Sitting farther down the table, England watches as his nobles fawn grossly over Henry's coronation gifts. His king, to his credit, is only superficially engaged in the proceedings, his mind focused on the coming burdens of duty.

England is not pleased. He knows the nobles are not either, and that fact alone almost makes him consider siding with Henry. Almost. His chest is still scarred with the disputes that plagued his last king's reign, and now the wayward prince, who had abandoned his duty, returns? It's a mockery. But of course, his nobles only care about their own wealth and prosperity, England be damned.

Henry is intent on not repeating his father's mistakes. Hah. England shovels another bite of food into his mouth. He might as well eat to his heart's content while the good food lasts. It'd only be a matter of time before his people started fighting again.

Unbidden, his thoughts turn to France. With all the civil war that had been going on, he hadn't had the time to write as often as he had liked. The two of them had been in a tentative peace, and England had silently enjoyed it. He had been meaning to respond to France's last two letters, and with the claims to the English throne finally settled, perhaps he could even visit soon…

On cue, the couriers call out a gift from the Dauphin of France, and England starts, nearly spilling soup over his neighbor. He hurriedly dabs at it, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible with his sudden interest in the proceedings.

The gifted chest is presented, and the courier opens it to reveal a single ball.

A hush falls over the dining room. England's stomach sinks to the bottom of his feet, his appetite vanishing in an instant. Standing, Henry walks slowly to the gift.

"There's no accompanying message from the Dauphin?" he asks. A flare of hope sparks in England. Surely, if France had heard of his coronation, then he had also heard of the newly tentative peace in England's lands. This was just a jest, an olive branch between two kingdoms, surely.

The courier shakes his head. The silence is deafening. Someone, somewhere, coughs, and the sound seems to echo for ages before settling.

"This was sent only for me," Henry muses. "For the boy I once was." The court holds a bated breath.

He bounces the ball. "I will accept this gift."

The tension is released, slowly, but England can feel the simmering anger in his people. The ball is an insult to his king and kingdom. The upset brings a tingle to his skin. What was France thinking?

* * *

England is lying with his eyes closed, his mind with his people as they worked. While his nobles, arrogant with their French blood, deigned the servants as below them, England sought refuge amongst those who were truly _his_.

The door creaks open in bursts, as if the intruder is hesitant to disrupt England's peace. England does not move, only opening his eyes in resignation.

He does not need to turn his head to know who has entered. Lean, with dark hair and dark eyes, his king could have lived in this chamber were it not for the heavy, fine fabric that clothes him.

"Henry," England says. The other man steps into the room, not fully closing the door behind him. Henry walks to stand wordlessly in front of him. A long silence stretches between them.

"You…" Henry says. "Who are you? I remember you from when I was a child. I find you again, at the same age. Do you have a father?" He jokes.

"Doesn't every human?" England responds. The conversation is losing his interest quickly. This man was barely grown into adulthood. What did he know of _sacrifice_ , of the duties of kingship? Of attaining peace?

"..."

England cannot tell his king to leave a room that he reigns over. He wonders what pathetic excuse he can give to escape this conversation.

"You are not like us," Henry says, softly.

England starts. This human...how had he…?

"Are you fae?" Henry continues, remarkably calm.

"No," England replies, slowly.

"Then…"

"I am your loyalty—your land, the people, and the collective belief of _England_."

Henry's eyes widen. England allows himself to look into Henry, into one of his own. His people are him. Their thoughts are his.

A breath escapes him. His king...does not understand. Yet, he is strangely sincere in his desire for peace, to end the petty disputes and civil war that plagued his father's reign. It is such a startling departure from the immaturity England had boxed him into, that he is momentarily silent.

Henry looks down earnestly at this being, this immortal who he knows not, but who he implicitly trusts, as every human who calls themselves English trusts. He drops to his knees, as if it is England who had been crowned. "Will you guide me?"

Perhaps, because his people hope, because they long for a return to order of older times, England does not say no. He is foolish to trust this man's words. Kneeling in front of _another…_ it is madness. England himself had watched from the shadows, bitter and _standing_ , as Henry had been crowned. The young king knows nothing of decorum, of what rule is, having been separated for so long from court. His royals will always disappoint him, forever seeking other land, more _worthy_ personifications to command loyalty from. The English are merely nuisances, a people and a land no one wants.

Yet, he is nothing if not the folly of his people.

"I will be at your side," he says. It is not a promise.

* * *

_August 1415_

When England wakes, he realizes he is not _actually_ awake. The scene around him is clouded, as dreams often are, yet England's mind and senses are sharp.

He is acutely aware that a nation is with him, here, in this dreamscape.

He had known, of course, that when Henry and his army of twelve thousand had landed in France, that this was a possibility. As a nation, England had not sensed France in his physical vicinity, but that did not mean he could escape the other in his dreams, not when he slept on the other's land, breathed the other's air, and drank the other's water.

The meeting was long awaited. The declaration of war from his king had been announced shortly after his coronation, and none of England's following letters had been answered. He had not begged, of course, but simply asked for some explanation to the madness that France's Dauphin had started.

France is older, perhaps seventeen years of age. He is dressed in the proper clothes of a nobleman, a fashion England's own court seeks to mimic. England feels acutely out of place in his sleep tunics. He was not so adept at manipulating the false reality of dreams yet.

France is simply looking at him. The awkwardness of the silence is astounding. What had happened to the easy laughter of conversations past? "Don't you want to know why I'm here?" England blurts out.

"Pleasure, I assume," France drawls. England feels a jitter go through him.

"No," he stutters. "Didn't you get my king's proclamation of war?"

"Hmm?" says France. "My king receives many letters of adoration every day. He cannot possibly read them all."

A prickly feeling grows underneath England's skin. He cannot understand France. Yes, they were locked once more in war...but the last time they had met, it had been in a time of peace (perhaps ceasefire was a better term). France had laughed, running his fingers through England's unruly hair as he had once done when the other was younger. And now, he stood here, as if they were strangers?

"Do you not care that your people will die?" England demands. First the insults to his king, now this disrespect...had Henry been right?

"From boredom, possibly," France says.

England flushes, glaring at the other. "You…! Do not say I had not warned you, I—" Suddenly, he is speaking to empty air. France has left him. He was left with more questions than answers.

England muffles aggravated yells with his hands.

* * *

The siege of Harfleur had been brutal.

Despite their victory, the English march with the enthusiasm of snails. Gone were the aspirations of securing the throne. With disease dogging their feet, Henry had been left with no choice but to route England's men to Calais in an attempt to withdraw.

England can feel France behind his men, vague and in the far off distance. The knowledge discomforts him in a way he cannot place. France had not appeared in any of his dreams since the campaign had started, not even to gloat that England was now running from the battle he started. Even when they had previously been at war, France had taken every opportunity to dig salt into the wounds he caused.

(It's not that England had been searching France out, of course, but more so that France was like an annoying peacock — always wandering into your business to needlessly show off. So then why, _why_ — _)_

Spurring his horse forward, he forcibly turns his thoughts to his king. His poor, foolish king, so well meaning to avoid war, yet standing upon the same bloodshed of his forefathers. England listens in on his king's thoughts, hearing the tumble of _was it worth it, were the lives lost worth it, I defended my country's honor but at what cost?_

"Was it worth it?," he echoes, pulling up next to his king.

Henry starts at the sound of his voice, and he turns to face England, his face is full of heartbreak. _He is so young,_ England thinks bitterly.

"The siege proved to the French nobility that England is stronger than they assumed," his king says. "We underestimated how long it would be, but with God's mercy, we prevailed, and will prevail at a later time as well. The men we lost knew what was at stake."

England simply looks at him. "Was it worth it?"

Henry cannot meet his eyes, not when he knows who England is, and what the red scratches on his nation's chest mean. What the lives lost represent — England and Henry alike. Once more men died in England's name and in the king's command, with France graciously providing the change in scenery.

"...I don't know," he whispers.

Turning his gaze away, England looks across France's fields. The sense of familiarity pricks at him. "The thrill of victory fades quickly," he says. "What lingers long after is always ugly."

* * *

England opens his eyes to their shared dreamscape. France is laying in the field above him, watching the birds above him fly off kilter. England walks up to him.

"Why?" He demands. "Why did you insult my king with that coronation gift? Why did you invite us to war?!"

France feigns deafness. England resists the urge to kick the other. The movement is all too reminiscent of a time after Rome, when he demanded attention from the older nation. France had always only laughed, the weak attacks barely scratching his skin, before pulling England into an embrace to watch the clouds pass above them and listen to the chirping of birds in his woods.

How much the world had changed since then. Here the two of them are, locked in a war spanning decades. And England had _hoped_ , that perhaps, with the recent lack of battles between them, that perhaps...there was a chance for peace...

He squashes down the feelings. There is no time for nostalgia in this new world, not when his men die in his name. "I don't know why I bothered," he scowls. "You probably _enjoy_ feeling the pain of your people. Find it romantic, in your own sick way."

France's head twists uncannily to look at him. "Yet you're the one who sent the first proclamation of war. Is your own love life so lacking?"

The dreamscape dissolves, and England stares into the darkness of his tent instead. He does not return to sleep.

* * *

_October 1415_

The strange farmlands and cottages pass England in a blur as he runs across the countryside, crossing the distance as only a nation could. The thrum inside of him that draws him to the nation of this land, to _France_ , guides him even as the heavy rain catches in his eyes.

He doesn't collide into France as much as the other abruptly appears and sidesteps him, forcing England to cushion his sudden stop against the harsh bark of a tree. His bones crack under the sudden deceleration and England suppresses his wince, reticent to show any sign of weakness.

It is a weak attempt at a show of strength. His muscles are bogged in a weariness that sleep will not fix, and his throat scratchy and reflective of the illness stealing his army away. Nonetheless, he turns on straining ankles to face France.

The other is infuriatingly calm, a picture of civility even amidst the pouring rain. He is not wearing the heavy, pristine armor of his army, a stark contrast to the English army's scraps of metal. Rather, he stands in baggy tunics, a dagger at his side, as if England had roused him from sleep.

"So," France spits out, as if England's existence is an insult to God. "Here we find the dog, running away with his tail behind his legs."

Predictably, anger brings a red flush to England's cheeks that even the rain cannot dampen. He is halfway through drawing his sword when France rolls his eyes theatrically. "Do not bother with this now."

"You insult me and expect me to accept it?" England asks, incredulous. His voice cracks on the last word. France lifts one eyebrow, smug, and England scowls. Even at a distance, he cannot deny the difference in physical maturity between them both.

(It is _unfair._ France is hardly more than a few centuries older than England, at most, yet it is England that struggles to grow, England that struggles to obtain his people's loyalty and devotion. France captivates both nations and humans alike, and England...England captivates no one.)

"It is _you_ who called me here," France says haughtily. He stands with his hands on his hips, looking down on England.

"I-," England sputters. "I did no such thing."

"Why are you here then?" France asks. "Running in the rain to pay penance to God?"

"Why are _you_ here, then?" England snaps back. "Taking a shower after your Dauphin's had his way with you?"

"You insufferable–" Gone is the composure France effortlessly maintains. "You call me across my land, pull me into your godless dreams, and you are nothing but as savage as you have always been. Still the feral child from when Rome abandoned you, following an equally childish leader."

"You join me!" England squawks.

France rolls his eyes, and somehow, the movement is as condescending as it is elegant. "You _beg_ me to. I cannot sleep without feeling you drag our minds together."

An uncomfortable feeling twists within England's chest. The rain drenching the two of them paradoxically seems to make him grow hot. He wants to reach up to grab France, to force the other to look in eyes and see that England is no longer a child, no, he's a nation in his own right, with people who fight for him, who want him, who will make him _strong_ —

"I am in _your_ land," he begins, his throat feeling as though it has closed up. "I would do the same to any nation-Spain, Portugal, even my brothers."

France looks at him through lidded eyes, and the sneer curling at his lips entices England to rip it off or kiss—

"I'm sure you love the attention, England. You were always so desperate for it, weren't you?"

A snarl escapes England and he shoves at France, the other merely stepping into it. There is a distant thundering in his ears. The few inches separating the two are the width of a chasm. His hand tremble with a desire to- to what? _I want to kill him_ , England thinks, furiously, shoving his other thoughts away. _I want to throttle him, I want to see the life fade out of his eyes._

"Why are you here?" England asks instead, and hopes the downpour hides how his body shakes (in _anger_ , he insists).

For a long moment, France does nothing but look at him. "You should not have come," he says finally.

"What kind advice," England replies sarcastically. "I shall surely remember that next time I am on the cusp of victory."

"Cusp?" France says, incredulous. "You will lose tomorrow, you and your weak, defeated army. God has blessed us, and discarded you in the same breath. You are foolish to continue along this path."

"Then go back to your _blessed_ people and win." In this moment, England wants nothing more to return to his king, his own people, far away from any sight or thought of France. Back to his own land, to rebuild after a civil war, to the predictability of warring with his brothers and the peace of not confronting uncertainty.

He pushes past France, and nearly jumps through his own skin as the other grabs his arm. He turns half way, wary, wondering of what to suspect. France looks as though he wants to say something (you wish it was _don't go_ , a voice in him says maliciously).

After a heavy breath, France lets England's arm fall. They both stay frozen in that moment, the world silent.

England leaves.

The run back is dreary, and England is dripping wet and shivering by the time he returns to camp. England finds Henry alone, eyes trained on the nothingness of the darkness ahead. He approaches his king unceremoniously, and stops in front him.

Henry looks up at him, a relief in his eyes. The sight warms England, the feeling of attention loyalty strengthening him. "Where have you been?" the other asks.

England moves to sit down next to Henry, still soaked from the rain that persistently falls. He mutters under his breath and his clothes are dry in the next second. Henry, always uncomfortable with England's lingering pagan ways, pretends not to see. "It doesn't matter," England says, reluctant to think about France in any capacity.

His king looks as though he wishes to push the matter, but falls silent. The impending battle weighs heavily on both their minds. A man of barely a few decades and an immortal centuries old, both single minded in their devotion.

"All I had desired was to see this kingdom united under this English crown," Henry says suddenly. England spares him a glance. "After all the fighting under my father, I only wanted…" He doesn't finish the sentence. It doesn't matter. England _is_ Henry, as much as he is every one of his soldiers in this camp—he is the words they speak, the thoughts they think, and the home they long for.

His king wants peace. "And yet, here you lead me in war," England says. "The blood of my men on your hands."

England feels the flinch from his words in Henry's mind, and almost regrets his words. His irritation at France is still affecting him, he thinks. Nevertheless, the words are true.

"I am your king." Henry breathes out. The declaration isn't one of demanded obedience, but of responsibility. He unclasps his hands, staring at them, as though they will provide him the answers to kingship he so desperately seeks. When Henry lifts his head to look at his nation, there is nothing but the burden of monarchy pressing his shoulders down. England's breath catches in surprise. "I fight for you, and the future of our people."

"Tomorrow," he continues. "Tomorrow…I pray that God will have us victorious. Any life lost will not be in vain, but to a peace that shall last the rest of our lives."

England, too, has a responsibility to his people. He will kill France for his people's prosperity.

* * *

_25 October 1415_

A breath, held. His arms strain at the effort of holding the string taut. And then, the command for release, and the sky blacks out in a shroud of arrows.

The effort would have been tiring for someone of his stature, barely grown into the body of a teenager. But England is no human. Yet, Henry had delegated him away from the fighting. 'To keep him safe.' England is bitter, but not surprised. His kings, at best, find him mildly useful at gauging the public opinion, and a bother day to day.

The archers flank the English men at arms, burying the French with each loosened arrow. The heavy rain from the night before has turned the troughed soil of the path into a waiting coffin of mud. The French soldiers, weighed down in their heavier armor, trample over one another. The weight of their fallen bodies upon each other drowns them in sludge. An undignified death, for a people so obsessed with vanity. The cavalry charges are useless. His king had taken a calculated risk, and won.

But even as England draws his next arrow, his mind is with the slaughter in the field below.

The grin on his face is merciless. His eyes are distant as he watches his soldiers engage the French. They cut down his enemies with ease, pushing forward in lighter armor, uncaring of the destruction they cause. But England doesn't linger on their deaths, beyond indulging in glee at the pain France must be feeling.

(It wasn't always this way. Once...once their pain had been shared. A long time ago…

It would not do to reminisce in the midst of a battle.)

He hears shouting, and he observes in his mind's eyes as one of his humans turns to the source of commotion. Two of his men are fighting a soldier who is resisting the inescapable pull of the dirt below. They are both cut down. The french soldier presses forward, inexplicably resisting the fatal pull of the mud.

And England _knows._

He drops his longbow, shrugging off his remaining arrows to a man next to him. The commanding officer says nothing as he runs off to join the battle below. The men all know that he is favored by Henry and the nobles, for whatever reason—so they say nothing save silent grumbles, also drawn to their nation by a loyalty they cannot put into words.

England avoids the mud in the middle of the pass for as long as he can, running alongside the trees of Agincourt until he reaches the edges of the fighting. He sees his king in the thick of it, a beacon of glory, rallying his men to push forward. Pride blossoms in England's chest, but he has no time for that now. Hidden, he scans the battlefield, stretching his senses until—

_There._

Lips pulled tightly back over teeth, he shouts, and runs to join in the melee. His people turn at his presence, drawn to defend him, but he pays them no mind, eyes trained single handedly on his target. He hears Henry shout behind him—

_If we are mark'd to die, we are enough_

_To do our country loss_

France is engaged in a fruitless battle against one of England' soldiers. Fruitless for the human, for if he had been in battle with another mortal he would have won. The strength inherent to the nation of France cuts him down.

France pushes the corpse of England's man off him, assessing the state of the losing battle. He is donned in the same thick armor as his men. It is obvious that it has been crafted specifically for this revived war against England. Once pristine, it is now darkened with mud. He makes a move, as if to draw back to his Dauphin, to advise him of another strategy, when England slams into him. They tumble without finesse into the mud.

Struggling to get the upper hand against France's greater strength, England clambers on top the other. France's attempts to grapple with him are futile, the heavy weight of his armor his last clothes.

_and if to live,_

_The fewer men, the greater share of honor._

England rips the visor off France's head, throwing it off into the distance. Brilliantly golden hair is immediately sullied by dirt, and England relishes in the panic in France's eyes. Those eyes, trained only on him...be it love or hate, England accepts it all, so long as it is _his_.

England grabs one of France's arms and snaps it, and the resulting howl brings a smile to his lips. France is spitting French curses at him, failing to push England off. Instead, England properly traps France under him, straddling him so that even as his legs sink into the sludge, they pin France underneath him further.

"Here lies the once great France," England muses casually. He grabs the other's hair, forcing France to look upwards. "Hardly a fight, and defeated so easily."

_But if it be a sin to covet honor,_

_I am the most offending soul alive_

"You are a coward," France spits out dirt, as beautiful as ever. "Let us fight fair, and we'll see who the victor is."

England's laugh is mirthless. "Fair? You, who goaded me out here, with an insult to my king? No, France," he shakes his head. "The time for fair has passed."

France looks lazily up at him, as if his people aren't being massacred around him, as if he isn't laying flat on his back. To any other man, any other nation, it would have been a look of defiance. But England knows France better. There is fear in his eyes, not for himself, but for his people as they die. Underneath that armor, his skin will begin to criss cross in red, blood spilling as French die in his fields.

"You are not a man yet," France says, patronizing. "Perhaps you do not fully understand—"

"Understand?" England repeats in disbelief. Here he is, on top of France. France who is splayed out beneath him, like a woman, dressed heavy, while he sits on top in hardly any armor, almost naked. _A wedding night_ , England thinks, unbidden. When was the last time they had embraced each other, at all? And here they were, as intimate as one could be in a battlefield.

England feels as if he is watching himself as his hands let go of France's arms to push the other's hair back from his face.

France's eyes widen. "What are you-" His words are cut off. Amidst the roar of the battle around them, there is an abrupt silence as England presses a kiss against his lips.

"I understand," England says. "Do you?"

France stares back up at him, seemingly shocked. In the distance, he hears Henry shout again.

_He that outlives this day and comes safe home,_

_Will stand o' tiptoe when the day is named_

England startles back into himself. When he looks down at France, he stares right through him, a feeling of horror rising within him. The noise of the battlefield is too loud. England wants to get up and leave, or perhaps bring France with him, or rather, leave him in the mud here all together.

" _Angleterre,"_ France says, and England cannot hear the rest of his words. He stares uncomprehendingly down at France. What had he done? He had come to defeat France, his enemy, for nearly the last century. And he had...he had... _no!_

Unbiddenly, his hands close around France's neck. The other stares at him, perplexed.

England tightens his grip, and pushes down. France yelps, before his head is shoved into the mud. His body bucks up at England, panic-struck, a dying man's last effort. Throughout it all, England holds France down, unrelenting, feeling the man's efforts grow sluggish, and then lax against his hands.

When he is sure France has stopped breathing, he pulls the other's head back up. His hand covers his neck, yet England can see the purple underneath. France's face is pale, his eyes closed, and England's own drop to his lips, where he had kissed him.

He drops France as if the other had caught fire, standing up. The world spins around him. He can feel his people jubilant in assured victory. Backing away, he can't bear to look back at France, yet another corpse drowned in the mud behind him. He runs, back to his people, back to what is English.

_From this day to the ending of the world,_

_But we in it shall be rememberèd—_

_We few, we happy few, we band of brothers_

__

* * *

England is flush with victory when he finds Henry being celebrated amongst his men. Their losses had been few, and England pauses to send a brief prayer to God, naming all those who had fallen in his name.

One exuberant company is picking their way around the dead, lifting off newly smithed weapons without caring for the corpse they are looting. Others are corralling the french prisoners together, in the distance. England does not know where the Dauphin is, nor what is the next step to take, but in this moment, he is content to indulge in celebration with his people.

The cheering spurs the adrenaline that shakes England. He catches a feral smile in the reflection of discarded swords on the ground. He steps in mud, on and around bodies of humans with their mouths forever choking on mud. The image furthers his excitement as he pushes past the battlefield to climb up to his people.

"My king," he says breathlessly, laughing, manic. "My liege," and he gracefully drops to one knee, kneeling in front of this human—his human, victorious and so, _so_ , devoted to him. England cannot remember the last time he willingly bowed in front of a mortal. He hears the ghost of a laugh centuries ago promising him he would.

The soldiers around him step back, an unconscious deference to their personification. Henry is also smiling, but his elation feels dimmed, and the corners of his mouth are strained at the edges. "England," he murmurs, stepping close.

England is too prideful to be told to rise, and so he does so unprompted, sparking muttering around them. Henry raises his hand, silencing the gallery. "Walk with me," he says, ignoring another round of protests.

"Is the personification of France amongst the prisoners?" Henry asks, once they will not be overheard. They walk amongst the trees that surround the narrow pass. England stretches his senses, running them over the nothingness over the French captives, then shakes his head.

Henry sighs deeply. "So he is still a problem to deal with, then," he concludes.

"No," England says. Henry looks at him questioningly. "I killed him."

" _What?"_ Henry jerks to a stop. "He's...dead?" England shakes his head, again. "Then…he will revive as your kind does." Henry mulls this over, remembering snatches of what England had told him in the past. "Where is he now?"

England falls silent. He had…

He had kissed France and then…

"I don't know," England lies. He shuts the memory out and walls it off. The battle ended when he drowned the other in his own land. "I was attacked too soon after. By the time I came back, he was gone."

"For him to be powerful enough to revive so quickly…" Henry murmurs. His mind wanders off in thought, hand stroking his beard. England is too focused on ignoring what happened to follow where his king's thoughts go.

"...the prisoners," Henry is saying, and England has to jerk himself back to the present. He motions Henry to repeat himself. Henry sighs. "I am reluctant to say this, but I worry. I worry for _you_ , England. The prisoners we've captured––there are thousands of them. You killed their nation, and yet he lives. For them to overwhelm us...it could cost us this victory God has blessed us with."

"Yes," England says, slowly, opening his mind to Henry's. "And?" And as Henry begins to talk, England _understands_ , and his face splits in a wide grin. The anger he feels for himself France, the lingering loathing from their battle claws at him, and he has the perfect chance to indulge it.

"Kill them," he agrees. "Your concern is valid."

Henry is taken aback. "It…" he hesitates.

England does not have the same weakness, or mercy. "It would be foolish not to. They deserve nothing less than punishment for their attempt to defy us, and our mandate," he says with a snarl. Sparing Henry a glance, he consciously straightens, commanding respect. Sometimes, humans were too kind for their own good. "Henry," he tries to say, gently. He doesn't quite master it.

(France was right—he is, as ever, the unrefined, wild child from the past millennia.)

"You fought a good battle," he continues. "And won. To keep the French as our prisoners would only threaten our peace."

The young, victorious king shows his age. England can sense as he comes to terms with his decision. Henry turns to look back to where his people stand and celebrate.

"Yes," he says firmly. He looks back at England with a smile, and England can see the charm and sincerity that has captured his people. "This war...has come to an end now. The French will not dare to disrespect us again."

England hides his own smile. Disrespect? It is him who will spit on chivalry when he kills France's own men. He hopes France pays attention.

* * *

Calais is part of England, yet it is not. England traces over the sole of his foot, where this new land resides, feeling the lingering novelty in his acquisition. The people living here do not respond to him, but in time, after generations, they will.

England blinks his eyes open to the hazy dreamspace that nations occupy. When had he fallen asleep? Calais around them is warped, the colors blurring together. He stands to his feet quickly, senses sharpening. Calais is part of him now, so why—?

He spins on his heel and catches the thrown knife in the palm of his hand. Hissing, he yanks it out, letting it clatter at his feet.

France stands across from him, eyes wild. The armor he wore the last time England saw him is in shattered pieces around his body. England avoids looking below France's eyes.

"Calais is mine," England says automatically. Blood drips from his hand ominously, dissolving into the nothingness of the dreamspace. _Nothing here is real_ , he reminds himself.

(Except for the words they say, of course).

There is a cackle of laughter in the air. "Yours?" France repeats, in a madman's voice. "Oh yes, you'd love for this whole land, this world to be yours. Wouldn't you, England?"

England doesn't reply. He wonders if this is how France had felt every time he had cornered England, the surefire knowledge of having the upper hand despite being in unfamiliar territory.

France totters unbalanced on his feet, then lunges forward. Alarmed, England fumbles for the knife at his feet but is unsuccessful. France catches him in a tackle and forces him to the ground.

"You can't kill me here," England wheezes, the air knocked out of him. "You can't do anything. You've **lost**."

"You killed them!" France shrieks, the volume shocking England silent. He pins England to the ground in a mockery of their last embrace, but his hand remain at England’s shoulders, shaking them roughly. “You foul, horrible creature—”

Regaining his bearings, England shoves France off him. "And what of it," he spits, wiping the dirt of his face. "As if you would have had the same kindness for my people."

France shakes his head, standing up. His face is a reflection in disgust. "So eager to prove yourself, aren't you."

The words strike at England's heart. He can't place why. "I'm not a child anymore," he says instead. He stalks forward and grips France's chin, forcing it downwards to meet his eyes. "You underestimated me," he grins. "You won't again."

France laughs in his face. "Underestimated you?" he hisses. "Your rag-tag army manages to survive, and you consider yourself a competitor." He shakes his head, his hair falling forward in between them.

England hasn't moved, but the ground seems to shift underneath him. "I've won, France," he says. "I sought victory, and God rewarded me. This is only the beginning."

"Victory," France hums thoughtfully. He wretches England's hand off his face and grabs the other as it comes up to strike them. Instead of pinning England once more, he simply curves the other down so that England is forced to look upwards. Leaning close, their faces are a breath away, and England's attempts to free himself stop.

"On the contrary," he purrs. "I think you sought _me._ " England's eyes widen, and his mouth twists to refute it. "Won't you kiss me again, _mon petit lapin?_ "

England yells, and throws France off him. "You're wrong," he stutters. "I only wanted to defeat you–kill you–"

"And yet, you kissed me." England can't bear to look at France, his blue eyes hardened in hate (but don't they hate each other?), hair tangled and messy, as if the other had been pulling at it. "Do you think of me?"

"No!" England shouts, scrambling away, trying to stand up. "Shut up—you've lost, _shut up_ — _"_

France remains unmoved, a deriding sneer on his face. "Should I leave you? You, all _grown up_ now. Certainly not a child. Perhaps you like to touch yourself to memories of me?"

England shatters the dreamspace and lurches up off the floor. He throws the door open, blindly stumbling through rooms until he's outside and then he's running, away from his room, from Henry, from France—

Shock cold water stops his pace and he almost falls face forward into it. He blinks up into the night sky, and with a start, realizes he's run all the way to the coast. In the distance, he can feel the insistent pull of his land.

Falling to his knees, England stares wide-eyed across the Channel. The sky was clear, the water calm. It wasn't true. France...he….he's a liar, England thinks viciously. Looks are all he has. _He wishes I wanted him, the whore._

The ocean only laps at him, silently. He doesn't move until the sun begins to rise.

* * *

_November 1415_

_Long live the King!_

__

When Henry staggers into his room, a hollow look on his face, England is not alarmed. His people are happy, his land is at peace. There is an infectious joy in the air, and England feels giddy because his _people_ are. Nevertheless, he gives his king his due respect, and sits up at his entrance.

"Henry," he begins, but the other collapses onto the bed next to him. England steadies him, brow furrowed, before understanding.

"England," Henry pleads. "I ask nothing of you, but to be true to me. Will you promise me that?"

The non-sequitur doesn't surprise England, he who sees all of his people, their deepest secrets and their superficial thoughts. So, the insult had never existed. There had been no ball from France––only an attempt by his nobles to claim France's throne for theirs. A bark of laughter escapes England. His people dead, a war waged on a lie?

Yet, it had been a victorious war. For France to fall—it had been worth it, it _was_ worth it. For England to desire France's defeat, his people desire it as well. They did not die in vain. It is his future to return to France, to assert his dominance over the other. And if France died, then, well. That was only for the better, wasn't it?

"Always," England says. His king is true to him, and he will always be true to himself.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Author's note_
> 
> This fic is a mix between the actual historical Battle of Agincourt, Shakespeare’s play ‘Henry V’, and the netflix adaptation ‘The King’. The fake ‘insult’ by the French is fictional (the campaign was started when Henry’s claim to the French throne was rejected), but the following siege and miraculous victory are true. Major kudos to my artist, Percy! I hope you enjoyed our work. 
> 
> _Artist's note_
> 
> I wanted to edit and draw this so it felt like a medieval story book, integrating the wonders of Mary’s amazing writing and my art. I hope you have enjoyed the integration of the two of them. Furthermore, I wanted to have some elements of Medieval story books, which is why most of this is done traditionally, while integrating some aspects of stylization. I suppose I should introduce myself, I’m Percy - a 15 year old artist who used to be heavily in the Hetalia fandom on an instagram account @aph.deutsch.wurst (which is retired now), now I post occasionally post Hetalia fanart on my art account - @mysticgummybear, though now I have moved on to being heavily multifandom. I hope that this provides some new content for the Hetalia fandom, especially towards the historical part, being the part I enjoyed the most, and at times felt lacking, Have a good day!


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